


Lullabies and Exiles

by bayloriffic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayloriffic/pseuds/bayloriffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her encounter with the Yaoguai, Belle returns to the Dark Castle, just before one of Rumpelstiltskin’s deals pays out. Meanwhile, the curse is still on its way...</p><p>Or: the one where Gold's a single father and Lacey's the nanny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (The Dark Castle)

**Author's Note:**

> Goes AU before Belle is captured by Regina after her adventure with Mulan.

Five days after Rumpelstiltskin Five days after Rumpelstiltskin tells Belle to go, tells her that he doesn't want her anymore, she breezes back through his front door, dressed in tight leather, a book clutched in her hand and a dagger sheathed in her boot.

Rumpelstiltskin stares at her dumbly as she stands in the front hall. “You came back,” he says wonderingly. 

“We made a deal,” she informs him haughtily. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and her hair's a wild, messy halo around her head, and she is easily the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I--” he starts, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“I promised I would stay with you forever,” she reminds him, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I don’t break my deals.”

“Oh,” he says, trying and failing not to grin at her. The corner of her mouth quirks up in response, and she ducks her head, attempting to hide her smile. 

When she glances back up at him, she’s managed to school her face back into a neutral expression, and Rumpelstiltskin has his lips pressed together tightly in mock-sterness. 

He clears his throat. “I’ll expect you’ll be returning to your old rooms, then.”

“Indeed,” she says, raising her chin defiantly. “The ones in the east wing, that is. _Not_ the dungeons.”

“Of course, dearie,” he trills, bouncing lightly on his toes. “The dungeons are quite full anyway, what with all the children I’ve captured from the village.”

Belle rolls her eyes, and walks towards him. Rumpelstiltskin freezes, holding himself completely still as she approaches. When she gets to where he’s standing, she reaches out and touches his arm, trailing her fingers lightly across the dragonskin of his coat. 

“It wasn’t a trick,” she says softly, looking at him with those too-blue eyes. “It is true love.”

Rumpelstiltskin gapes at her, his heart beating much too fast in his chest as she leans over a presses a quick kiss against his cheek. He flinches before he can stop himself, and she sighs, shaking her head sadly as she makes her way back to her rooms.

*

The next morning, Belle serves Rumpelstiltskin his tea as usual, not mentioning the fact that their normal tea set has been destroyed, or that she had to take the chipped cup from it’s place of honor in the Great Hall. 

He’s grateful for that, so as she begins to take her normal perch on the table, he waves his hand in a small flourish, an ornate wooden chair appearing to his right in a cloud of purple smoke. 

“Thank you,” she says with a small smile, glancing at him as she takes her seat. 

“So, dearie,” he says, smiling at her brightly. “Any exciting adventures while you were gone?”

Belle nods and grins back at him, her eyes alight with excitement as she tells him all about her journey, about meeting the girl from a far off land, about tracking and defeating the monster.

“So,” he says once she finishes her tale, tracing one finger over the chipped gold rim of his cup and giving her a sly look. “You tamed the beast.” 

“No,” she says, leaning closer to him. She smells lovely, like tea and lavender and sunshine. “I simply helped him be who he really was.”

Rumpelstiltskin giggles, about to point out that these things are not necessarily all that different, when there is a loud knock from the front doors. 

Belle glances back down at her tea as he rises, making his way towards the front hall. It is rare for him to receive visitors. Usually, it’s either Regina or someone coming to make a deal, neither of which he’s in the mood to deal with right now.

When Rumpelstiltskin opens the door, he finds not Regina or another desperate soul, but instead what appears to be a small bundle of pink rags sitting there. He tilts his head as he studies the package, puzzled. Occasionally, the local townsfolk will drop off an offering to him, but it’s always something quite obvious -- a basket of meats, a folded array of silks -- but this is something different altogether. The fabric is rough and ugly, the blankets heaped in disarray. 

He's taking a tentative step towards it when the bundle moves, a small pale hand reaching up into the air. He jumps back quickly, staring in horror as the bundle begins to make a series of quiet cooing noises.

“Belle!” he calls, not able to keep the panic out of his voice. He stares at the bundle, willing it to disappear. “Belle!”

She races into the hall, her footsteps echoing loudly. “Rumpel?” she asks, sounding scared. “What’s wrong?” She stands next to him, out of breath, her chest heaving as she glances down at the pile of blankets. After a moment, her eyes get wide and she gasps, looking back up at him in wonder. 

“What is that?” he demands, pointing one gold-clawed hand at the messy pink bundle. A small head is visible among the folds of fabric, pale smooth skin and soft gold-brown hair. 

“It’s a child,” she says, as though this should be obvious, as though infants appear on the doorstep of the Dark Castle on a regular basis. 

Rumpelstiltskin suspects a trick, suspects Regina, but he can’t figure out the motive. Why would someone deliver him a child? He’s trying to decipher it when Belle moves towards the door, reaching out towards the bundle. Rumpelstiltskin jumps, grabbing her arm, clamping his fingers around her thin, pale wrist. 

“What are you doing?” he demands. The baby’s eyes blink open to stare at them, and Rumpelstiltskin gets a queasy feeling of panic in his stomach. 

“Well, we can’t just leave her outside,” Belle says, tugging her wrist out of his grasp and wrapping her arms around herself as a cold blast of wind gusts through the door. “She’ll die!” 

“Let’s hope so,” Rumpelstiltskin chirps. He is fairly certain this child is a trick of some kind, so he’s not going to worry a great deal about the fate of some likely cursed child. 

Belle huffs out a sigh, trying to move past him to pick up the child. He steps in front of her, blocking her way. 

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she says, giving him a dark look. She's back into her ordinary clothes today, the soft blue and white dress rather than the dark leather corset, but she still looks every bit the warrior at this moment. “Move.”

“No.” He pulls himself up to his full height, putting on his most intimidating scowl, but Belle simply rolls her eyes. “She is not staying.” 

“I thought you dealt in children,” she says, as though this should be proof that he would be willing to take in any abandoned urchin who shows up on his doorstep. 

"Did you now?" he asks, smirking at her with a leer, trying to distract her.

Belle shrugs, fidgeting with the laces on her dress. "I've heard the stories."

“I _deal_ for children, dearie,” he tells her. “They are a price to be paid. This one seems to have come for free.” He squints at the swaddled pink bundle, trying to locate any traces of magic that surround it. He thinks there may be something, a slight, familiar electric buzz, but it’s difficult for him to make it out from as far away as he is. “Everything comes with a price,” he murmurs, more to himself than her.

“So?” Belle says, interrupting his inspection.

“So, I don’t trust it,” he says, nodding at the child. 

Belle blinks. “You don’t trust a _baby_?”

“No,” he tells her. He looks back towards the child, concentrating hard on that subtle shimmer of magic, working on ferreting out the mark it carries. That vague feeling of familiarity remains, and Rumpelstiltskin closes his eyes as he tries to parse it.

There’s a quick, sudden surge, the magic suddenly more powerful, and when he opens his eyes, Belle’s got the child in her arms, carrying her determinedly across the threshold.

“Belle,” he starts, eyes wide. The magic is bound to them now, he knows, as is the child. 

“See?” Belle says, smiling gently at the baby. “It’s fine. She’s not a trick. She’s just a baby.” She adjusts the light pink blanket and a worn piece of parchment drifts to the floor. 

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t move to pick it up, still wary of what threat the child might pose to his power and his home. 

When Belle realizes he’s not going to move, she sighs and adjusts the bundle in her arms, leaning down to grab the parchment. She studies it for a few seconds, her forehead wrinkling as her eyes scan the note. 

Rumpelstiltskin takes the opportunity to look at the child for a moment; it’s so very small, tinier even than Baelfire was when he first laid eyes on him. For all his deals for first-born children, he hasn't been this close to one since his own son was an infant.

“What is it, dearie?” he asks nervously. 

“I think it's a contract,” she says, looking up at him, her bright blue eyes scanning his face. 

“A contract?” he repeats, stepping closer to her. 

She nods, holding the parchment out to him. He hesitates, and she gives him a stern look, taking a step towards him and pushing the paper into his hands. 

Rumpelstiltskin glances down at it with a sense of dread, already knowing what he holds. It is indeed a contract, one of his, promising him a first-born child in exchange for a rather pathetically small sum of gold, something the girl had believed could save her from a fate of poverty and hunger. He looks back up at Belle, a sick feeling in his stomach. She’s cooing at the baby, rocking her slightly as she holds her against her chest.

“Well,” she says, glancing back up at him. “What does it say?”

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes, grasps the parchment and magics himself away in a cloud of purple smoke.

*

The village looks exactly the same as it did years ago when Rumpelstiltskin came to make the deal. The girl’s shack has changed little as well, though there are thick black cloths hanging over all of the windows. There’s an old woman standing next to a rough goat pen, and she barely spares him a glance as he appears next to her home. 

“Excuse me, dearie,” he trills, grinning at her. “I’m looking for –”

The old crone blinks. “Did you not get her then?” she says, sounding rather unimpressed by his presence.

The smirk falls from his lips. “What?” 

“The baby,” the woman says, heaving a bale of straw into the goat pen. “The one my daughter promised you.”

“No, I did,” he says, confused. This woman seems inexplicably unconcerned about the fate of her granddaughter. “I did get her.”

“So what’s the problem then, Dark One? The deal is fulfilled, is it not?”

“Yes, but...” he says, trailing off, not able to explain to this rough old peasant woman how this deal has never been fulfilled, not in the three centuries since he began asking for children as payment. 

The woman turns away from him, using a pitchfork to spread the straw out in the pen. Rumpelstiltskin watches her with a scowl, pressing his lips together in a tight, thin line as she continues tending to her goats.

“Where is her mother?” he finally asks. 

“Dead,” the woman says matter-of-factly, turning back towards him and brushing her hands against her black skirt, leaving small pieces of straw clinging to the rough fabric. “Died giving life to the little bastard.”

Rumpelstiltskin gives her a sly smile. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, with a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll make you a deal.” 

The woman doesn’t respond, just looks at him blankly, but he ignores the lack of reaction and continues. “I’ll return the child to you and I’ll supply you with as many riches as you desire.” He flourishes his hand and a long scroll of parchment unfurls, glittering brightly in the sunlight. 

The woman scoffs. “No deal.”

“Why not?” he demands. “You get both riches and your grandchild returned to you.”

She shakes her head and smirks. “I don’t want the child,” she says turning away from him and back to her goats. "Nor do I want any of your demon gold."

“Is that right?” he sneers, feeling the familiar prickle of rage as he looks at this idiot woman, abandoning an innocent child for an unknown fate.

“Anything else?” the woman asks, hands on her hips and a defiant look on her face.

Rumpelstiltskin presses his lips into a thin, tight line and waves his hand vaguely at her, a haze of purple smoke leaving behind an old, grey goat where the woman once stood.

“No, dearie,” he says with a manic giggle, calling upon his magic as the goat bleats at him angrily. “Nothing else at all.” 

*

When he returns to the castle, Belle is in the Great Hall, pacing anxiously, the baby held in her arms. Her eyes widen in relief when she sees him, but she must sense his dark mood because almost immediately she takes a step away from him, clutching the child to her chest. 

“Well?” she says. “Did you find out who she belongs to?”

“Me,” he says angrily. The child is very small and very delicate, and Rumpelstiltskin keeps his distance. “She’s mine.”

“Yours?” Belle asks, eyebrows knit in confusion. 

“Yes. I made a deal,” he says tightly. “With her mother.” 

“Rumpel!” she gasps, horrified. “You can’t keep her! Her mother, she must be--”

“Dead,” he says, cutting her off. “The mother is dead.”

“Oh,” she says, looking back down at the child. Belle bites her lip and strokes her hand absent-mindedly over the soft downy hair on the child’s head. “Well, then, there must be someone else, someone who can take her, someone who wants her...”

“There is no one,” he says, loud enough to startle the child. “She is mine.” 

The baby starts to fuss in Belle’s arms, her small, fragile fists waving helplessly in the air. Belle readjusts the child against her shoulder, rubbing soft circles against the baby's back. The little girl stares at him, blinking her wide grey-blue eyes, and Rumpelstiltskin takes a quick step back. 

“Oh,” Belle says again, chewing on her lip as she looks back down at the little girl. “Well then...would you like to hold her?”

“No,” he says quickly, taking another nervous step away from them. Something about the child makes him uncomfortable, reminding him horribly of things he’s long since lost.

“Rumpel,” she sighs, but the baby begins to fuss, interrupting whatever Belle was going to say. Rumpelstiltskin just watches with a kind of horrified fascination as the child grows more and more agitated, wailing loud enough that it echoes against the stone walls.

For her part, Belle has begun to look panicked, patting the little girl’s back and bouncing her lightly. “What do we do?” she asks helplessly.

“I’ve no idea, dearie,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the child’s sobs. It’s face is red and angry, covered in tears and snot. 

“Do you think she’s hungry?” 

“Perhaps,” he says, squinting at the child with distaste.

“What should we feed her?” Belle asks, looking around desperately, as though he has a secret store of milk and bottles hidden among his treasures.

Rumpelstiltskin snaps his fingers and a bottle appears in his hand, its contents warm and rich-looking. He makes his way cautiously over to Belle, the bottle held in his hand like a charm to ward off evil.

The child continues its tantrum, crying louder and louder each second, but when he holds the bottle up to its mouth, it quiets, latching on and suckling contentedly. 

Belle smiles at him gratefully and reaches up to take the bottle from him, her fingers brushing against his as she does. The baby is watching him, eyes wide and innocent. Before he can step fully away, the child reaches out with one tiny hand and grabs hold of his finger. 

Rumpelstiltskin makes a quiet, surprised noise in his throat, watching in wonder as the child holds onto him, her pink-white skin looking young and pure against the dark, rough gold of his hand.

As he stands there, Belle and the child both smiling at him sweetly, Rumpelstiltskin doesn't think to consider at all how this might affect his plans, doesn't stop to worry about the Evil Queen or the curse or any of the things he's spent centuries trying to put into motion.

*

It's not until weeks later, when Regina shows up at the Dark Castle, her eyes dark with rage as she demands the means to Snow White's end, that Rumpelstiltskin understands the true danger of what's happened, the havoc he is about to wreak on his own tenuous, newfound happiness.


	2. Chapter 1 (Storybrooke)

For the most part, Mr. Gold enjoys his reputation around Storybrooke.

He likes that when he tells people to do something, they do it. He likes that very few of his tenants are ever late with their payments. He also likes that people leave him alone, not forcing him to make inane small talk about their silly, insignificant little lives.

But he does not like that, when he tries to find someone to watch his daughter while he works at the shop and collects the rent, there is not a single person in all of Storybrooke who is willing to take her off his hands for a few hours.

It’s not that Gold doesn’t care for Penelope; in fact, he loves her very much, more than anyone in Storybrooke would likely believe. But he does have a shop to run, and taking care of an infant is rather more work than he can manage on his own.

The truth of the matter is, Penelope is quite a joy, but she is quite a handful as well. And it’s not as if he should be faulted for wanting someone responsible and capable to take care of her.

It’s also not his fault that half the people Storybrooke are too terrified to work for him or that the other half have proved completely unsuitable to be trusted with the most precious thing in his life.

So he starts bringing Penelope with him to his shop, keeping a playpen in his office in the back, taking care of her there as best he can between his customers. 

It's not until he has to bring her around on his calls to collect rent on his various properties around town that it becomes too much, that he realizes that he can't continue like this, that something must be done. 

*

For some reason, Gold had assumed people would soften when they saw him with a baby, but instead they just seem more afraid of him, glaring at him like they suspect that he's stolen the child from some hapless young woman.

It probably doesn’t help that Penelope gets more and more cranky as the night wears on, crying and sniffling and grumbling so much that it probably looks as though he’s holding the poor child hostage. 

By the time he makes it to Moe French’s flower shop, Penelope has apparently had enough of the whole things, and her cries have become a full-blown tantrum, her face bright red and covered in tears and snot.

“You’re late on the rent again, Mr. French,” Gold says, bouncing Penelope in his arms, trying to calm her down at least a bit. She’s not having it, though, and she just keeps crying, her wails loud enough to make French wince.

“I’ll have your money next week,” French tells him.

“The terms of our agreement were fairly specific,” he says, trying to sound matter-of-fact despite the screaming child in his arms. “No rent, no shop.” He leans his cane against his hip and holds out his hand, palm up. “Your keys, Mr. French.”

But Moe doesn’t give him anything, just shakes his head and takes a step back. “This is no way to do business, Mr. Gold,” he says, speaking loud enough to be heard over the baby’s cries. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Gold snaps, his patience quickly unraveling. He’s due to be at the shop at first thing tomorrow morning, and Penelope is already up long past her bedtime. “Give me the rent or the keys.”

“I’ve got a daughter,” French says desperately. 

“So?” Gold asks.

“So, she’s excellent with children.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You need someone to watch your girl,” French says boldly, but his eyes shift nervously, glancing down at Penelope then back up at Gold. “My Lacey will be perfect.”

“Will she now?”

French nods eagerly, apparently eager to offer his daughter’s services in return for his own debts.

Gold sneers. “And what would you like in return, Mr. French?”

“Let me keep my shop,” he says quickly. “And I’ll pay everything I owe next week.”

Gold is going to say no, but Penelope won’t stop crying, and there’s no one else in town who might be willing to watch her. As much as he loves her, Gold's not sure he can take one more day of her in the shop. So: “Fine,” he snaps, tightening his fingers on his cane and heading for the door. “Have your daughter at my house tomorrow at seven or I’m taking the shop."

*

Moe French’s daughter shows up on his doorstep exactly at seven the next morning. She’s rather scantily dressed and she looks as though she just rolled out of bed, but she smiles when she sees Penelope.

“Miss French?” he asks, and she looks back up at him, the corner of her mouth still curved up in a soft smile. Her eyes are the most dazzling blue Gold has ever seen.

“Call me Lacey,” she says easily. She’s got the same accent as her father, but it’s somehow different coming from her, lilting and melodious instead of grating and obnoxious. “You’re Mr. Gold, right?”

“Indeed,” he says. “And this is Penelope.” 

“Hi, Penny,” she says, grinning and waggling her fingers in a little wave. Penelope giggles, reaching out and wrapping one chubby fist around the girl’s thumb.

“Penelope,” Mr. Gold corrects sharply, holding his daughter a little closer to him, pulling Penelope away from her. 

But Lacey just rolls her eyes, shaking her head at the baby, like the two of them are already share some sort of bond, them against him. Penelope reaches for Lacey’s thumb again, her tiny fingers clutching at the air until Lacey gives the baby her hand, tickling the middle of the baby's palm with her fingertips.

“So,” Lacey says, still looking at his daugher rather than at him. “How long do you need me to stay?”

“I’m usually home by six,” he tells her, stepping back so that she can come inside.

Lacey follows him in, looking around appreciatively. Her skirt is prohibitively short, her legs distractingly smooth and milk-white, and she's wearing the most inappropriately high heels he's ever seen for someone planning to spend her day with a six month old.

“Nice place,” she says, trailing her fingers along the round mahogany table in his foyer and glancing curiously at the vase of red roses sitting on top of it.

“Thank you, dearie,” he says shortly, leading her into the living room. She matches her pace to his, her heels clicking in time with the tapping of his cane.

He shows her the kitchen and the nursery, telling her about the bottles in the fridge and the baby food in the pantry, about Penelope’s nap schedule, about where he keeps the diapers and the baby’s toys, about the areas of the house that are off-limits, about how she is not to answer the door or the house phone while he is out.

"Lots of rules," Lacey mumbles after he tells her the she's only to watch television while Penelope is asleep.

"Yes, Miss French," he says. "There are 'lots of rules.' And if you and your father expect to keep your little flower shop, you'll be sure to follow them."

"Aye, aye," she says with mock-seriousness, giving him a snappy little salute.

Penelope seems to find this highly amusing, smiling broadly at her, as though the young woman is the most amazing thing she's ever seen in her short life. Mr. Gold himself is rather less charmed by Miss French's insolence.

“So,” Miss French says, looking idly around the nursery. It’s a disaster, toys strewn everywhere and a pile of baby clothes sitting unfolded on the rocking chair. “Where’s your wife?”

“Gone,” Gold answers shortly. Penelope’s mother is not something he wishes to discuss with this girl. Not now, not ever.

“O-kayyy,” Miss French says, raising her eyebrows like she thinks this is a bizarre answer.

Penelope reaches for her again, grasping at the air with one hand and pulling on Gold’s tie with the other. When she stuffs the end of the tie into her mouth, he sighs in irritation, but then Lacey’s suddenly reaching over, plucking the baby out of his arms and absentmindedly brushing away some of the drool on his suit. Her fingers warm are against his chest, and Gold's stomach flips at the casual intimacy of the contact.

For her part, Lacey seems not to notice, just props Penelope on her hip, holding her like it's second nature. The baby immediately grabs of strand of shiny brown hair, shoving it into her mouth, gumming at it contentedly. Gold winces, but Lacey doesn’t seem to mind, just turns her head and presses a quick kiss against the downy hair on Penelope’s brow. The simple gesture somehow eases his mind considerably.

“Well, Mr. Gold,” Lacey says. They’ve circled back around to the front door, and Penelope is sitting comfortably in Miss French’s arms, gabbling quietly as she pats one spit-slick hand against the girl’s cheek. “We will see you at six.”

Gold nods. Despite her wardrobe and her somewhat indifferent attitude, Miss French appears capable and it's clear Penelope is already enamored with her. So he leans over to press a quick kiss against Penelope’s cheek, already thinking about the tasks he needs to complete in the shop today.

But then as he leans over, he gets a quick whiff of Lacey’s perfume, something soft and vaguely floral, and the scent is strangely, troublingly familiar. He lingers there for just a moment too long, his eyes closed, trying to jog his memory. There’s just something about her, a feeling that he can’t quite shake, this sort of déjà vu that makes his heart stutter strangely in his chest. 

“Umm,” Lacey says, taking a step back. She really does have the most lovely eyes he's ever seen. “Well. Okay then, Mr. Gold. I’ll take good care of your girl.”

“Yes, of course,” Gold nods, moving back to give her some space. He’s got no idea what’s gotten into him, but that strange spark of recognition remains, hovering just on the edge of his memory. Which is absurd, he knows. He's never met this girl before today, of that he is quite sure. 

He makes his way carefully down the walk, gripping his cane tightly in his hand. His heart still feels as though it's not beating right, and he presses his hand lightly to his chest, trying to get himself under control. The scent of Lacey's perfume still lingers and, behind him, he can hear her talking softly to Penelope, her voice warm and happy.

Gold makes the drive to his shop on auto-pilot, still feeling off-balanced and out of sorts, unable to get Miss French out of his mind.


	3. Chapter 2 (Storybrooke)

By the time he gets home for the day, Mr. Gold has only barely managed to shake the unsettled feeling from that morning. 

When he pulls up to the curb outside his house, he can hear rock music blaring from one of the houses on his street, and he looks around, annoyed, before he realizes that it’s coming from his own home. He gets a tight knot of anxiety in his throat, thinking of his daughter trapped inside with that horrible sound, and he hurries up the walk, fast enough to make his bad ankle throb, the music getting louder and more cacophonous by the moment. 

It’s even louder once he's inside, and he stalks through the house looking for Penelope and that irresponsible bar fly he stupidly entrusted to watch her. 

He finds them in the kitchen, Penelope in her high chair and Lacey dancing around in front of the stove, her back to him. There’s a pot of something boiling away in front of her, and she’s stirring it with a wooden spoon as she sways her hips to the music and sings off-key to whatever it is she’s listening to while Penelops bangs her tiny fists delightedly against the tray on her chair. The noise is unbearable.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demands, practically shouting to be heard over the commotion. 

From her place by the stove, Lacey whirls around, her cheeks pink and her hair wild. For some reason, Gold flinches when she smiles at him. There’s something about her that unsettles him, makes him feel awkward and out of place in his own home.

“Hey, Mr. Gold!” she says, still smiling at him as she smoothes a loose strand of wavy auburn hair behind her ear. She’s still dancing a little, bobbing her head and twitching her hips to the music. “Is the music too loud?” she asks.

“Yes,” Gold snaps, gripping his cane so tightly that the metal is biting into his palm and his knuckles are starting to ache. “Turn it off.”

But Lacey just shakes her head, like she’s amused, and dances over in the direction of where the music seems to be coming from. Across the room, Penelope babbles happily, her eyes tracking Lacey as she moves around the room.

The small stereo from the living room has been set it up the counter, and Mr. Gold feels a spike of rage shoot through him at the idea that Miss French she has any right to rearrange his home or touch his things. Something red has started to spatter out of the pan on the stove, leaving bright spatters on Mr. Gold’s clean countertops, and Lacey doesn't move to clean it up.

When she finally does make her way over to the stereo, she turns the music down, but not off, some horrible American rocker still singing in a high voice about a woman and a car. “Sorry about that,” she says, breathless, but she’s still smiling at him, still dancing a little to the music, as she turns the temperature on the stove down. The kitchen smells like tomatoes and garlic. 

“Turn it off,” he grits out again. His head has started to ache, the vein in his temple throbbing painfully.

Lacey laughs, her eyes dancing. “Now don’t tell me you're not a Van Halen man,” she says, not making a move towards the stereo again. “Come on, Mr. Gold, this is Panama! Best song ever written, right, Penny?” She gives Penelope a wink, and the baby giggles delightedly. 

Gold has, he decides angrily, had just about enough of this. He smashes his cane into the stereo, and the music stops abruptly with a crash of plastic and metal. 

"Jesus Christ!" Lacey yells, jumping a little and spattering more of the sauce along the counters. Across the room, Penelope starts to cry, her sobs cutting through the sudden silence of the kitchen.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lacey demands. There's a hot, bright spot of color on her cheekbones, and she crosses the room quickly, her inappropriate heels clacking loudly against his polished wood floors. She scoops Penelope up from her high chair, cradling her against her chest, rubbing her back and talking to the baby in a low, comforting voice.

“Put her down,” Gold tells her, his voice low and dangerous. 

“You’re scaring her!” Lacey says, and then she turns away from him, like she’s shielding Penelope, like she needs to protect his own daughter from him. 

“Put her down, Miss French. And get out,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the baby’s cries.

Lacey scoffs. “You’re firing me?” she asks, incredulous. She's still holding Penelope in her arms, stroking her back in this soft, sweeping circles, trying to get her to calm down. 

“Yes, dearie,” he says, making his way over to her and plucking his daughter out of her arms. Penelope wails, her face red and angry. “Get out.”

Lacey glares at him, her eyes bright with tears. “You’re going to regret this,” she tells him.

“I highly doubt that, dearie,” Gold says with a cruel smirk. “Now go.”

In his arms, Penelope is still crying, reaching out for Miss French, grabbing at her with her tiny fists. 

Lacey shakes her head at her, smiling sadly. “I’m sorry, Penny,” she says, reaching out to run a gentle hand over the baby’s head. 

Gold pulls Penelope away from her, ignoring the way the child’s cries get even louder and more frantic. “Goodbye, Miss French,” he says coldly.

She blinks and a tear runs down her face, leaving a black trail of mascara down her cheek. “You’re a monster,” she tells him.

It’s hardly the worst anyone’s called him, but for some reason it makes him flinch, and he’s not sure why this idiotic girl’s opinion matters to him at all. But before he can figure it out, Lacey’s gone, marching out of the kitchen and hopefully out of his life forever.

*

Penelope refuses to stop crying. 

Gold feeds her. He changes her. He rocks her and reads her a story and gives her a bath, but the crying continues, loud and panicked an incessant. 

It’s never been like this. She’s had tantrums, of course, but nothing like this. Nothing like this inconsolable sobbing, as though she’s lost something that can never be replaced. 

He finally calls Dr. Hopper, worried that it might be colic again, but the good doctor tells him Penelope’s much too old for that, that unless she’s running a fever or seems ill in any other way, it’s most likely just a tantrum. But Gold knows that’s not true, knows it’s something much more than that.

Finally, he gathers up her things and brings her out to the car, strapping her into the car seat.

The drive to Moe French’s flower shop is short, but with a crying infant it seems as though it might never end.

It’s almost midnight when he knocks on the door, and French is bleary-eyed when he finally answers.

“I need to speak with Lacey,” Gold tells him, speaking loud enough to be heard over Penelope’s wails.

“Lacey?” French repeats, blinking at him dumbly. 

“Yes, Mr. French,” Gold snaps. “Your daughter.”

“She’s out,” French says, scrubbing a hand across his face, his palm rasping against the spotty grey stubble on his cheeks. “At The Rabbit Hole, I think. You should look for her there.”

*

Despite the fact that Mr. Gold owns The Rabbit Hole, he’s never actually visited the establishment during its regular working hours.

As far as he’s concerned, the bar is a disgrace, a disgusting dive that caters to Storybrooke’s lowest citizens, masses of common drunks coming and going throughout the night. And yet, it’s almost obscenely profitable, so Gold keeps it on his books. 

He parks his car illegally in front of the door, unbuckling Penelope from her car seat and carrying her into the dark, smoky bar. The music’s loud and grating, annoyingly similar to the noise Lacey was blasting from his kitchen early that evening, and Gold feels his shoulders tense.

People turn to stare at him when he walks through the door, though whether it’s because of his reputation or the infant cradled in his arms, he’s not sure. Gold ignores him, just as he's ignored the stares and judgments of these backwards townspeople for decades, and makes his way steadily over to the bar.

“Hey,” the bartender says, outraged. “You can’t bring a baby in here, you’ve got to -- oh, Mr. Gold,” he says, standing suddenly straighter. “Sorry about that. But, uh, she’s --” he nods at Penelope “-- she’s not supposed to be in here.” 

Gold doesn’t respond, just stares back at him steadily until the bartender clears his throat and looks away. 

“Okay, then. Well,” the bartender says, picking up a pint glass. “What can I get for you?”

“I’m looking for a girl,” Gold says, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the baby’s cries.

“Oh, hey,” the man says, raising his hands, palms up. “We don’t do that kind of thing here, Mr. Gold, but if you want, I know a guy – “

“A particular girl,” Mr. Gold snaps. “Her name is Lacey. Lacey French.”

“Oh,” the guy sighs, relieved. He pulls the white bar rag off his shoulder and starts polishing the glass. “Yeah. Lacey. Of course. She’s over at the tables,” he says, nodding towards back corner of the bar.

The corner of the bar is crowded, and it takes Gold a second to see Lacey, leaning over the bright green felt of a pool table, a pool cue in her hands, and a half-empty pint glass sitting on the table next to her as she takes her shot.

He makes his way slowly over to the table, directing a glare at anyone who looks in his direction. The jukebox is back here, the music loud enough to drown out the baby’s cries, and neither Lacey nor the hulking man next to her seem to notice his approach. Lacey’s laughing at something the hulk is saying, but her smile fades when she sees Gold. She doesn't say anything as he reaches out and puts a hand on her companion's shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Hey, asshole,” the guy says, turning around. “Why don’t you just --” He stops dead when he sees Gold standing there, his face going ashen. “Oh man, Mr. Gold. I am so sorry. I had no idea it was you," he babbles, and Gold vaguely recognizes him from a few of his shadier business dealings. "Really. I am so, so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Do you want a beer? Can I --”

“Leave,” Gold says, watching Lacey. She stares back at him steadily and takes a long sip of her drink, her eyes not leaving his over the rim of the glass.

“Okay, yeah, Mr. Gold. Sure thing,” the man says, ducking his head and practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.

Across from him, Lacey is giving him an appraising look. “Do people always do what you tell them to do?”

“I can be quite persuasive, dearie.” The air between them is thick with smoke, everything in the room taking on a soft, hazy quality.

“Hmmm,” she says, sliding her hand across the polished edge of the table and narrowing her eyes at him like she’s trying to figure something out. And then she looks at Penelope, her face breaking out into a smile. “Hey sweetie,” she coos. 

It’s like a switch has been flicked, and Penelope stops crying immediately, her cries tapering off, to a couple of watery hiccups. Gold is both grateful and annoyed. Penelope has never warmed this quickly to anyone.

The baby reaches out for her, and Lacey shakes her head, sticking out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry," she says, flicking her eyes up to look at Gold. "Your mean old papa doesn’t want me near you.”

Gold rolls his eyes. “Miss French, I was hoping you and I could talk.”

“ _You_ could talk,” Lacey shrugs, looking away from Penelope, but not before she gives the baby a quick, playful wink. "But I'm not sure if I'm in the mood."

Penelope’s getting fussy again, squirming and kicking her sock-encased feet against his chest. Gold sighs and bounces her in his arms softly, trying to calm her. 

“I’m here to apologize,” he says, carefully neutral. 

“Is that right?” Lacey says, putting her beer down on the edge of the pool table, and crossing her arms over her chest, and nodding at him to continue.

“I’m sorry,” Gold says as sincerely as he can.

At first, Lacey doesn’t respond, just raises her eyebrows like she’s surprised. Then: “Is that it?” she asks, like his offer is somehow lacking.

“What more do you want, dearie?”

“An explanation for why you’re here for one thing," Lacey says, cocking her hip and leaning back against the table.

“I just told you, Miss French," Gold says. "I’m here to apologize.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Lacey says, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes at him. “But you’re also not exactly known around town for your apologies, so. Why are you really here, Mr. Gold?”

Gold grimaces. “I would...appreciate it if you would return to watch Penelope,” he admits. 

Lacey grins. “Is that right?”

“It is,” he confirms, forcing himself to remain civil. “Your father and I made a deal, and it’s now up to you to honor it.”

“And if I don’t?” she asks with a level gaze.

“Then your father will lose his shop,” he snaps. “Don’t test me, dearie.”

“Alright, relax, Mr. Gold,” Lacey says with a laugh. She takes another drink, and he can't help but watch the way her throat works, pale in the dim light of the bar. “I’ll come back.”

“Excellent,” he says, not able to hide his relief. In his arms, Penelope’s already drifting off to sleep, her body a limp heavy weight against his chest. “But let’s be sure the terms are clear.”

Lacey looks at him challengingly, eyebrows raised.

"You are to arrive at seven every morning and stay until six every evening," he tells her, feeling comfortable for the first time since Lacey French appeared at his doorstep. After all, if there's anything he knows, it's how to deal. "You are not to play loud music. And you are to dress more appropriately."

Lacey snorts, and his composure falters. “I’ll be there at seven and stay until six. I won’t play music quite as loud. And I’ll dress however the hell I want,” she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Penelope fusses in her sleep while Gold pretends to think it over. After all, it wouldn’t do for the girl to think he’ll just immediately give in to her every demand. He does have a reputation to uphold. He waits until she starts to fidget, her fingers tapping impatiently against her half-empty pint glass, and then: “Deal.” 

Lacey smiles, looking mighty pleased with herself. Gold resists the urge to roll his eyes, just readjusts Penelope in his arms. And then, before he has a chance to turn away, Lacey leans in close, and presses a soft kiss against Penelope's head. Just like that morning, something about her makes Gold start, his heart suddenly beating wildly in his chest.

He takes an unconscious step towards her, drawn by a force he can't fathom. When she looks up at him, her eyes are dark in the dim light of the bar, and she's biting softly on her lower lip, small white teeth stark against the dark red of her lipstick.

Gold blinks, trying to get his bearings. "Well," he says, clearing his throat and taking a step away from her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss French,” he says, and his voice comes out fairly steady.

“Bright and early, Mr. Gold,” Lacey says, and her voice sounds low and sweet and so strangely familiar he thinks it might drive him mad.


End file.
